Walking Bolt: On the Road to Success

By Marie Dixon Frisch

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Global change is upon us. In the old days, when you mentioned Jamaica, the first association would be rum. Nowadays it’s “run”.

“Typical Jamaican” is anything from nostalgic Bob Marley lyrics to raucous dancehall rhythms, estate rum to marihuana, dreams of paradise to nightmares in hell. Ruthless murderers cohabit with self-sacrificing innocents on an island that most people agree—albeit grudgingly—has something special about it. And since the impressive wins at the Beijing Olympics, folks are even indulging in “scientific” speculation about what that something might be.

His name is Bolt!

Although I don’t generally rave about celebrities, I can’t help loving him. He must have been about seventeen when I first saw him participate in the Commonwealth games: a gangly youngster, with skinny legs kicking up like mosquito wings, almost invisible, on air. It was magic to watch the ease, the grace with which he took the race away.

Sporting officials in Beijing made a ruckus, accusing Bolt of poor sportsmanship; I suspect to divert attention from the more sinister politics of the games. So what if he pulled up and beat his chest before the finish line? Imagine how fast he would have been if he hadn’t stopped!

Usain Bolt brought something quintessentially Jamaican to the arena: true joy and honest pride in his achievements. There’s so much hypocrisy and corruption in sports—and other things—it’s refreshing to see someone show what he feels. We’re so busy tiptoeing to avoid political incorrectness that we become sorry shadows of our true selves.

Well, I don’t run; at least, not if I can help it. I love dancing, though I’m really bad at it, I take Reggae in very small doses and I don’t smoke—anything. My greatest sporting achievement was winning a lifesaving event in the final year of high school.

Ironically, a large percentage of Jamaicans can’t swim, despite their island origins, so a bronze medallion in lifesaving is a pretty useful thing. I’ll never forget the pure ecstasy of winning that race. Unfortunately, someone stole the T-shirt I got for winning, and a stronger swimmer swam in the finals for our school team, while I warmed the bench in reserve.

But I didn’t mind. Being there was what mattered. Besides, I’m left with nicely sculpted calves and decent shoulders from those months and years of training daily over the course of my adolescence.
I feel no compulsion to be part of the running crowd; I concentrate on what I do best. Swimming is less appealing now, so I walk. And when I walk, I contemplate, I dream, I breathe, I interact, I meditate, I write, or sometimes I walk for walking sake.

I don’t do it for the exercise, not to get somewhere and not to fill time. I do it for the pleasure of walking, feeling my body move, seeing what or who I encounter, experiencing the joy of being.

There’s so much hot air on success and the road to it, I get exhausted sometimes just thinking about it. I’ve done a few programs, read lots of books, and everywhere there’s pressure to act and achieve. Success becomes such a dominant goal, we forget about the road.

But what if success in not a distant destination? The road might be rocky, the road might be rough, or it might be easy-going at times, but fact is, my success is the road. It’s taking that next step, enjoying the present one, moving on in faith, pleasure and pride. Just happy to be here, grateful I can walk.

Sure, I try Canfield’s daily disciplines but, knowing me, I won’t stick it for more than three days. Five days, max, if I’m feeling ambitious. I’ve read all about the Secret, too. However, all that manifesting and meddling is just too much work. Apart from which, every time I formulate the perfect goal, my heart goes ahead and changes its mind.

Thank goodness, I don’t need to be a billionaire, though given the trend, if money were an object, I wouldn’t want less. Yet, my limiting thought is “why?” Having to spend all that money wisely would give me headaches and cause me stress.

Did you know elitist Jamaicans are all over: as political advisors to presidents, rocket scientists at NASA, Ivy-league economists, running billionaire businesses, on Nobel-prizewinning research teams, as well as infamous posses committing vicious crimes? A friend of mine, a political scientist, circulated the thesis that Jamaican dominance in sports is indicative of global sociopolitical change. America is declining, and Jamaicans are coming out to take over the world; or some conspiracy to that effect.

I’m not so sure about that premise, but there’s nothing like a good crisis to help me appreciate what Jamaicans have. I read an article about American kids getting innovative and making their own toys and thought, “Mensch, (a mild German expletive for 'man') Jamaican kids have been doing that all their lives!” ,--remembering fondly yellowy mango seed dolls with ripped-stocking bodies. Or elaborate trucks made of milk cartons and bottle caps that can be found on “poor” Jamaican country roads.

Inconstant, imperfect, but never a failure: I am my own measure of success. I keep changing, and with me the measure. I am sure Usain Bolt runs mainly against himself. The race is never about anyone else.
Go ahead, dare to be proud of yourself, in every which way you can. Instead of pursuing happiness, just be it. And by the way, I absolutely recommend victory dancing. I’ve recently added the lightning Bolt move to mine.
It irritates the bejewels out of my husband.

Heh!